


I'll Always Wait For You

by generalfoolish



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Spoilers, oscarisaacweek, tw: death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalfoolish/pseuds/generalfoolish
Summary: You were awoken in the middle of the night, and it's your ex-boyfriend, Santiago. You still love him, but he's in a lot of pain over the loss of a friend.
Relationships: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/You
Kudos: 3





	I'll Always Wait For You

**Author's Note:**

> hey all! Just a quick one shot for Santiago Garcia. Love that scruffy, hardass. This happens after Triple Frontier, and so includes a pretty big spoiler if you still haven't seen it. Nothing sexual, just a little appreciation of this character.

The first knock wakes you. It’s heavy, just short of pounding. In your dream, the knocks rattled your teeth. You woke just before the rattles knocked the teeth out, you’re worst recurring dream. The second knock jolts you to your senses. You were groggy, still mostly asleep, waiting for your eyes to adjust, and the second knock pumps you with purpose. Adrenaline, actually, but it got your feet moving anyway. Without thinking, without wondering why a burglar would knock, without stopping, you grab the old pistol from your bedside table.

An old gift, something you didn’t want to keep, but didn’t have the heart to throw out. You shook your head; it wasn’t even loaded. In any case, you keep moving. Some resilient and urgent move in your head, screaming at you to move your ass faster. Get down the stairs, it demands. Your eyes are barely adjusted to the dark, but you know your house pretty well. You take the stairs faster than you should, but your feet hit plush carpet each step. You look across your open floor plan, the blinds leaking little light in from the street, just enough to see that nothing is amiss. You sigh, droop your arms a little. Your adrenaline is ebbing, and you’re getting a headache. You almost laugh at your ridiculous response, when the third knock comes. It sounds like a heaving slap against the door panel, and you almost drop your gun in shock.

Scrambling, you cross the space between the stair landing and the door. On tiptoe, you peer through the peephole, not sure what to expect. Never did you expect him. Santiago Garcia. It was dark in your doorway, and it had been years. But you were sure. As sure of anything.

You threw the door open, and then your energy fizzled. You couldn’t form any words, especially not the right ones. Not the ones that had died on your lips the last time he had left. Not the ones he should have known. Not the right ones that could have kept him from going. Instead, you search him. His face, his frame, his features, and you drink it all in. He looks tired. Not just tired from a flight, or because of the late hour, but bone tired. Everything you want to say to him, scream at him, stays in your chest. All you can do is let him in.

“Sorry for the time, I—uuh—just landed.” He tells you, stepping inside. He only has a duffel bag, and you wonder why he’s bothered coming to see you at all. You snag your lip harshly between your teeth to keep the biting words at bay. You wince when the familiar metallic taste floods your mouth and loosen your hold. A self-inflicted split lip is worse than him leaving, again, you tell yourself. Instead, you decide to ask a reasonable question.

“Santiago, what are you doing here?” You ask, shutting the front door, and facing him.

“Well, I just landed. I’m just back from South America.” He reasons, a hand resting on the back of his neck, a small smile playing on his lips. You stare him down, urging him on. He doesn’t continue.

“Santi, 2 in the morning isn’t a great time to play games. I meant here, literally here. My house.” He exhales deeply, and a nervous grin spreads on his face.

“You said the door was always open, and you, uhm, kept that old service pistol I gave you.” He motioned to the gun hanging loosely in your hand, and you closed your eyes.

“I haven’t seen you in years.” You remind him, and you realize you still can hardly make him out. Neither of you had flipped a switch. You put the gun down on the entryway table and grabbed his upper arm. “But, if you’re here, you may as well be comfortable. Shoes off in here, who knows what you’re tracking in those old boots. Give me the bag and meet me down the hall in the kitchen. I’ll get you some tea, and if you’re hungry I have some leftovers from dinner.” You ticked off and grabbed his bag. You climbed back up the stairs and headed to the guest room. You paused as you set the bag down. You didn’t know why he was here, but you were already hoping he’d stay for a little while. Maybe long enough to move to your bed, you thought, feeling the blush creep up your neck. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t done with him before, but him coming in at such a late hour felt too intimate, too personal, after so long.

You shook your head to clear your worsening thoughts. You padded back down the steps, following your own familiar path to the kitchen, where he was already sitting at one of the counter stools. In the harsh lighting of the kitchen, you could see his graying hair and his shoulder’s slumped inwardly.

“Chamomile?” You ask, walking past him, and perking him up. He was still sporting a nervous smile, one that didn’t quite meet his weary eyes. He shook his head.

“I can’t believe you still drink that stuff.” He said, laughing gently. The sound filled the space, and you grinned back.

“Right! I forgot how much you hated it. Uhm, hang on. Let me think…I have a beer? Whiskey? Water?” You ticked off, trying not to think too hard about what he liked.

“Water is perfect, pollito.” You grab a cup from the shelf, and angle it under the water dispenser.

“Don’t call me that.” You warn as you sit the cup in front of him. He grins slyly, and drinks deeply. When you were dating, he had no limit of annoying pet names for you, and pollito had been his favorite.

“Okay, I’ve been hospitable enough, Santi. You have to explain. Give me something.”

“Well, I’m done.” You quirked an eyebrow but didn’t speak. He had been done with the Army, and then joined spec ops. He had been done with that, and then left for South America. You had been done with that particular game for too long to fall for it again. Santiago was a lot of things, and restless was one. Done, for him, simply meant moving to the next job. So, you waited, as you had for all those long years before, you waited for him to explain.

“The last job was bad.” You were going to say something snarky, something about how they were all bad, but then you saw his face drain of color. You saw his waterline start to flood, and you reached across the counter and took his hands. You offered him a small smile, but he was lost in his thoughts, too far to reach. You rubbed circles on his hands as you waited for him. You might kick yourself later, but you knew in your heart that you had always been waiting for him.

“It was Tom, he couldn’t…he wouldn’t let it go. He…he’s dead, now. And it’s my fault, mi vida. If I had just left it alone. I couldn’t let it go.” You felt him tense under your hands, and you swallowed a soft gasp. Tom had been one of Santiago’s closest friends. Their team was more like a family to them, and to lose one must have shattered them all. Your mind flickered to the other boys, and you hoped they were well. You had lost them when you had lost Santi. Another regret for the lost love.

“Shhh, Santi, it wasn’t your fault. Tom agreed to the job, whatever it was, sometimes these things don’t go to plan. He knew the risks.” You stopped short of outright blaming Tom, you didn’t really know the story, but your hackles rose to protect Santi from his own thoughts. He would spiral if he held onto his self-blame. He turned his dark eyes on you, and you withstood the storm forming in them. You weren’t sure who he was anymore. You wanted him to be the same, your Santi. He had been peppering pet names in, and you hadn’t missed the subtle glances. But, this man before you, he had seen and been through hell, you were sure of it. You just didn’t know how much of him made it out.

“You don’t hate me?” His usually commanding voice came out in a harsh whisper, one filled with so much yearning that it almost made you gasp again.

“Of course not, Santiago. I could never hate you.” He smiled and curled his hand up into yours. Whatever happened next, at least you had each other.


End file.
